They went upstairs. Bree veered toward the primary bedroom while Matt entered what was clearly a guest room that appeared unoccupied. A light coating of dust covered the dresser and nightstands. The closet was empty except for hangers. The next—and last—bedroom was slightly larger. Two closed suitcases were lined up against a wall. Another lay half-empty on the bed. The closet door stood open.
A man’s wallet, a set of keys, a cell phone, a laptop, and an envelope sat on a writing desk. He tapped the phone. A passcode window appeared. The computer was also password protected. Matt opened the wallet. Oscar’s driver’s license photo stared back at him from the clear plastic window. Matt thumbed through the rest of the wallet: credit cards, health insurance card, gym ID, and $115 in small bills. He set down the wallet. The envelope wasn’t sealed. Inside, he found a notarized letter from Oscar to his previous landlord breaking the lease on his apartment. His move-out date had been last Sunday.
The suitcases mostly contained clothes. Matt found nothing unusual in any of them. A few boxes held personal effects. He made a note to collect the laptop and cell phone as evidence. The techs in the lab would need to bypass the security on both.
Masculine toiletries filled the vanity drawers in the bathroom. Matt found only over-the- counter medications.
Bree emerged from the primary bedroom as Matt went into the hall.
“Any luck?” she asked.
Matt told her about the letter.
“He was divorced, right?” Bree asked.
“Yes.”
“Was it amicable?”
“I left the department right after they split up, but he seemed pretty bitter. I met his wife a few times at community or department events, but I don’t really remember her. She was quiet. They didn’t have any kids.”
“Then we’ll have to talk to the ex. Disgruntled former spouses love to vent.”
“They do.” Matt gestured toward the bedroom. “I found his laptop and cell on the dresser.”
“Most people keep their phones in their pockets or at least close by. His mother did.”
“Maybe he was upstairs when he was surprised by the shooter.”
“Maybe.” Bree waved toward the primary bedroom. “Camilla took blood pressure medication and loved to iron. She even ironed her jeans and pillowcases.” Bree blew a piece of hair off her nose. “But other than an admirable dedication to housekeeping, I didn’t find anything of note. There were a few pieces of jewelry in the dresser, so I doubt theft was the motive here.”
Matt agreed. “I found cash in Oscar’s wallet.”
Bree nodded. “Let’s interview her brother. We’ll keep the house sealed for now, so we have the option of conducting another search. I’ll have my deputies box the financial records and electronics.” Items that didn’t seem important now might become more interesting as the investigation proceeded.
They went downstairs. The ME and her assistant were bringing in body bags. One CSI tech in full PPE was taking samples of dried blood. Another was digging a bullet out of the wall. Bree stopped to confer with the CSI techs. Outside, Matt stripped off his coveralls. He went to his vehicle and opened the cargo hatch. After opening his war bag, he pulled out a package of wet wipes. He rubbed one over his face and hair. When he was finished, he leaned on his vehicle to wait for Bree to finish issuing instructions to her team.
She joined him, lifting her shoulder to sniff her uniform sleeve. “I need to change clothes.”
No one wanted to perform a death notification while stinking of the rotting corpse of the family’s loved one.
They dropped Matt’s vehicle at his house and drove to the sheriff’s station, where Bree took ten minutes to wash her face and put on a fresh uniform. She sprayed air freshener on her hair. Then Bree and Matt climbed into her SUV and headed for Scarlet Falls.
Officially, they would be performing the death notifications. But at this point, Bernard Crighton, as the beneficiary of Camilla’s will, would also be interviewed as the first viable suspect.
CHAPTER FIVE
Bree drove south, her mind on the death notification. She ran a few initial sentences through her head. But the rest of the conversation would depend on the brother’s potential reaction. Some people were too upset to speak. Others wanted to talk, to do anything they could to bring their loved one justice. Had Bernard Crighton been close to his sister? Was Bree about to rock his world?
She glanced at Matt in the passenger seat. The dashboard light highlighted his sharp cheekbones. His reddish-brown beard was closely trimmed, barely more than stubble. He would let it grow for a week or so, then shave it off. She wasn’t normally a fan of facial hair, but it looked damned good on him. He was a physically intimidating man, standing a beefy six three, with broad shoulders, piercing blue eyes, and a chiseled Scandinavian bone structure models would kill for. In her mind, she often compared him to a Hollywood Viking. A battle-ax and iron helmet would have suited him.
Tonight, he wore tactical cargo pants and a black polo shirt bearing the sheriff’s department logo. They’d been dating for several months, and she knew the body under those clothes did not disappoint. They’d gotten to know each other in the course of multiple murder investigations. Bree had resisted a personal relationship, concerned that their working one would suffer. But that hadn’t happened. Instead, they’d become a comfortable, mutually respectful, and efficient team.
She could count on one hand the number of people she trusted, and Matt was one of them.
“Bernard teaches history at a small local college,” Matt began, scrolling on her vehicle’s dashboard computer. “He’s been at the same job for more than twenty years. He has no criminal record. There’s nothing more serious than a parking ticket on his motor vehicle history. He’s lived in the same home for nearly fifty years. He drives a ten-year-old Mercedes.” Matt typed on the keyboard. “Nothing even remotely scandalous comes up in an internet search.”
It was nearly eleven thirty when she parked at the curb in front of Bernard Crighton’s house. The neighborhood was well-established suburban, with tidy lots and mature trees. Tall, narrow houses were separated by skinny strips of grass. Some homes showed signs of remodeling. Others needed it.
Crighton’s house fell in the middle of the spectrum. The shutters and garage door looked to have been recently replaced but the landscaping was tired, with shrubs that had surpassed their useful life and gone dead inside.
“Quiet neighborhood.” Matt scanned the street.
Bree glanced at the house. The windows were dark. “We’ll probably wake him.”
“Can’t be helped.” Matt reached for his door handle. “We don’t want him to find out when he turns on the news to catch the weather report with his morning coffee.”
“No.” Bree sighed.
News vans had arrived at the crime scene before Bree and Matt had left for Scarlet Falls. Bree had promised the reporters a statement in the morning. But the presence of the medical examiner’s van would tell them someone had died, and they had the address. A quick public records search would tell them who lived there. Some would no doubt speculate, and Bree couldn’t guarantee information wouldn’t be leaked, not with so many people at the scene. The family of the victims needed to be informed ASAP.
But she hated this duty more than any other. She’d rather face a killer than bring grief to a family’s doorstep.
She stepped out of the car and started up the cement walkway. With a deep breath she knocked on the door. The house remained quiet for a minute. Bree pressed the doorbell and heard the echo of the chimes inside the house. A light went on in an upstairs window. A face appeared behind the glass, peered down at them, and then withdrew. A few minutes later, the sound of footsteps approached the front door.
A man in his late sixties answered the door. He was tall and slim, in leather slippers and a navy-blue robe over old-fashioned pajamas. His face was narrow. He wore his silver hair on the long side and swept back from a high forehead in a dramatic wave. His eyes narrowed at them. “Can I help you?”
“Are you Bernard Crighton?” Bree asked.
“Yes,” he said in an anxious tone.